


oh you pretty thing

by rilla



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crossdressing, M/M, Zayn Malik is Veronica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilla/pseuds/rilla
Summary: Zayn-as-Veronica and Harry on the BSE shoot. '“I’ve always liked a bloke in a skirt,” Harry says suddenly.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic transferred across from tumblr. Less plot, more Zayn in a skirt. Title from Bowie.

“I’ve always liked a bloke in a skirt,” Harry says suddenly. It’s the sort of thing he might say apropos of nothing on the tour bus or when they’re all sprawled over Louis’s hotel bed when they're talking shit late at night, it’s one of those random Harry things that he just suddenly comes out with. So it’s actually a bit weirder that he’s saying it right now. Right now, when Zayn’s wearing a skirt.

He clears his throat, and pulls the skirt down over his knees. “Good for you,” he says companionably. “Always here to please.” His Veronica wig’s getting a bit hot, and it’s sort of irritating and heavy. It would be nice if the hair and makeup team came to help him out of it sometime soon, if they decided to scrape his fake tits off his chest. But Niall’s claustrophobic in his makeup and Louis's in the middle of a strop about how irritating all the latex makeup is and Liam’s asleep in the corner of the green room sprawled over two chairs, so it’s just Zayn and Harry here in the makeup room. Harry and Veronica, really. Zayn and Harry's all too thoughtful gaze. He’s always been good at getting girls, Harry - one look and they’re his. Zayn can’t believe he’s one of Harry's girls. This is the weirdest video shoot ever. 

He hops down from the counter and almost stacks it in his heels, because of course he does. “Whoopsadaisy,” he says, steadying himself, and Harry laughs, a soft exhale, reaching out to catch his arm.

“I'm okay,” Zayn says, when Harry doesn’t let go.

“I know,” Harry says. He’s looking into Zayn's face intently, his eyes - false lashes, eyeliner, mascara. His jaw - closely shaved and caked in makeup so there’s no five o’clock shadow. His lips - still shiny and sticky somehow, still fuller than usual. Zayn doesn’t know how the makeup team did it. He had his eyes closed for most of the time until he opened them and felt a not unpleasurable jolt at the woman on the other side of the mirror. “Fuck,” Harry breathes, and touches the side of Zayn’s jaw, pushing Veronica’s hair back a little over his shoulder. “This is incredible.”

“Thank you,” Zayn says. One of his legs shakes and it bangs against Harry's; he feels like his chest is filling with butterflies, wild and beautiful and extravagant. He chokes them down. He’s always - Harry's always been such a fucking weirdo. A strange, gorgeous, unhaveable weirdo, with his odd prowling grace and his lopsided smile and that stupidly fucking dirty way he has of chewing gum. He’s not chewing gum right now, but he does smell of mint. 

“What are you wearing under here?” Harry asks, casual, and looks down, pushing Veronica’s blouse off Zayn’s shoulder, thumb stroking over the tattoo there, half covered in makeup. The camisole that they’d had him put on, just in case. It’s silk. A lot of what he’s wearing today is silk, unholdable and slippery. He can feel the warmth emanating off Harry's body. Fuck. Harry laughs a little, slips his thumb under the camisole strap, looks up to meet Zayn’s eyes. “This is okay, right?”

“I’m loving life, mate,” Zayn says, trying to keep his voice even, despite the fact his entire body’s about to combust.

Harry finds the fake tit, and squeezes it, and laughs. “That’s bizarre,” he says, and he’s normal Harry for a moment, the sort of Harry that doesn’t fuck Zayn’s mind up whenever he feels like it. Silly Harry, sweet Harry, human disaster Harry.

“Try having it superglued to your chest,” Zayn says. “Then you’ll understand bizarre.”

“I mean, it’s fit, though,” Harry says.

“Yeah?” Zayn’s chest does something even more bizarre than the fake boob glued to it.

“Well, I think so,” Harry says. “Like I said: I like a man in a skirt.”

“Subverting gender norms?” Zayn tries.

Harry screws up his nose; Zayn could wear he's flushing slightly. “Let’s go with that.” he exhales, and Zayn detects some shakiness there, just a bit. “What have you got on under your skirt, then?”

“Tights,” Zayn says. More silk. Something else a bit like the camisole he’s wearing on top. Oh, sweet God. There’s a line, he thinks, maybe. There’s a line between your bandmate dressing up as a girl for a video and your bandmate dressing up as a girl and also wearing girls’ knickers when it isn’t entirely necessary. Maybe he was too method here but he can't say he's regretting it now. He takes a breath. A leap of faith. He leans back against the counter. “You’d probably like it, if you looked under there.”

Harry's still for a moment, green eyes boring into Zayn’s. There are things that you can’t take back, there are things you can’t undo. There are words that can’t be unspoken. Zayn feels like this might be one of those times. Harry's eyes are on his still, as he feels the warm pressure of Harry's hand move down his side, the line of his waist, his hip. Harry fists his hand in the skirt, pulls it up, slowly and gradually. God, Zayn hopes that Louis isn’t about to walk in. When the hem of his skirt’s about mid thigh, Harry looks down. “Tights are stupid,” he says, voice cracking.

“You’ll have to get on then,” Zayn says, “won’t you.” He swallows. Harry's eyes are on his mouth, on his neck, on his collarbone. On his mouth again. “You’ll have to get on with it and take them off.” 

Harry tilts his head to one side, very slightly, like a thoughtful songbird. Then he moves away from Zayn, which, fuck, and then he goes over to lock the door, which - yes. Yeah. Yes. This is - this is a lot. Zayn raises an eyebrow and Harry comes back over, and drops to his knees. Slowly, slowly - he's got gentle hands. Very gentle hands. Why did Zayn never realise how gentle his hands were? - he pushes the skirt up, and pushes his hands up Zayn’s sides, to find the waistband of the tights, and then he starts to carefully peel them down and off. “We’ll leave those on,” he murmurs, fingers darting over the silk knickers, and Zayn steps out of the tights, awkward, fumbling, never quite enough. 

But then Harry's pushing the skirt up more and Zayn’s hard, has been for a while now. Stuff happens sometimes between the five of them, closeness and loneliness and warmth, but nothing like this. Never like this. Harry pushes the skirt up more, and groans when he sees the knickers, and presses the heel of his palm down onto his own crotch. “Jesus,” he says, and leans in, pushes Zayn back so he’s half perched on the counter, turning his head to press his face against the inside of his thigh. Zayn feels the push of his nose and the prickle of his lashes and the smooth warmth of his mouth, and when he looks down to see Harry's familiar curly head between his legs he feels a push of painful tenderness for him, like all he wants right now is to give Harry what he wants. It’s what Zayn wants too, after all.

“It’s okay,” Zayn whispers, tugging a hand through Harry's messy hair. “It’s okay,” and Harry nods against him, a staccato breath, and then there are kisses, soft, each one an ache, something pulled out of them and given away, a moment they’ll never get back, and Harry pushing up the skirt even more so it’s curled awkwardly around Zayn’s hips. 

Harry looks at the outline of Zayn’s hard cock pushing against the silk, and looks up, and says, like he really wants to know, “Did you choose this?”

“Why?” Zayn asks, low-voiced. “Does it make you hard to know that? that I like this? That it gets me off?” If he’s honest it’s never been a thing. What is a thing right now, is Harry. His face and his dilated pupils and his warm breath and warmer mouth. Zayn’s never seen him want anything so transparently before. 

“Maybe,” Harry says, and leans in, mouths against the head of Zayn’s cock through the knickers, dances his fingertips up the shaft. “Jesus. I…” He takes a breath, lowers his face, nuzzles at the crease of Zayn’s thigh, where the silk meets skin. “I haven’t done this before,” he admits.

“You’ll learn,” Zayn says, not unkindly. “If you want–”

“I want,” Harry says, and almost laughs. “God, I want.” 

“You want me to tell you how?” Zayn asks, which is another precipice that he’s tumbling over, another thing that he can’t take back. _I know how to suck a dick. Surprise!_ Although honestly it’s more of a surprise that Harry doesn’t.

“Let me just…” Harry pulls at the waistband, shaking hands, eyes steady with want, pulls Zayn’s cock out and then, like a perfect porn dream, looks right up at him and says: “You’re so thick.”

Zayn grunts, not especially cleverly. This might be how he dies, if he’s totally honest. Driven mad by Harry Styles and his perfect mouth, years after he thought about it for the first time. This has been a long time coming - for him, at least. “Get on with it, Haz,” he says, and Harry laughs a little, and does.

He’s a bit sloppy, doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, grips onto the base too hard. “Move your hand,” Zayn says. “Like you’re - yeah. Yeah.” He grips onto the counter. Harry's mouth is wet and tight and warm. “Tongue,” Zayn says, and Harry uses it somehow, twists it like Zayn’s his teacher and Harry's his star pupil. Harry goes deeper, takes more in, and Zayn says “Careful,” feels him almost gag, rubs his fingers through Harry's soft hair and over his forehead. Feels lost, utterly. Harry sucks cock with relish even the first time, which probably shouldn’t be a surprise. Eager to please. He always has been. Zayn never wants to look away from it, his cock sliding in and out of Harry's pink lips, the pale silk line of the knickers halfway down his thighs. Veronica’s tits almost blocking the view. Thanks, Veronica. Harry's dark lashes, the line of his nose, the shell of his ear so delicate and vulnerable that it makes Zayn’s heart clench. What if this is love? What if this is love, the last three years, what if this is love for him and he’ll have to put on a skirt again if he ever wants to have this one more time? He closes his eyes and lets it go, lets himself go, hears himself murmur and moan, hears Harry make appreciative noises. Then there’s the blunt careful edge of Harry's finger on his crack, tentative but certain, pressing against his hole, and he curls over, comes hard, hand still in Harry's hair. It floods through him, his whole body clenching, and he swears, half stutters, and means to apologise when Harry almost jerks back, eyes wide and surprised and starry, bottom lip wet with come. Instead Harry just says “Fuck. Yes. Fuck, fuck,” and grabs Veronica’s blouse to haul Zayn down to kiss him. 

He sinks to his knees and kisses the delighted expression off Harry's face and pushes him down flat onto his back, onto the old carpet, and settles down on top of him. Harry's hands roam down his back, over his arse. Harry grips it, drags Zayn down, and Zayn doesn’t stop kissing him. This might be it. This might be it, he thinks. Veronica’s hair is falling down around his face, around Harry's, and it’s a pain in the fucking arse, it’s too much, it’s awful, and he sits up so he can drag the wig off. 

It hurts, where it was glued in front of his ears and hairline, and he probably looks stupid because he’s wearing a wig cap underneath it, but Harry's just looking up at him open-jawed, like he’s been slightly concussed. He reaches up with careful hands and starts taking the hairpins out of Zayn’s hair, one by one, dropping them onto the floor, before pulling the wig cap off, smiling as he lifts a hand to mess up Zayn’s hair, his real hair, which is probably caked to his head with sweat. Harry doesn’t seem to care. “Zayn, you’re back,” he murmurs, and Zayn says, “I was here all along,” as he strokes a hand down Harry's chest and stomach to his jeans, flips the button open, gets a hand inside. Harry's cock feels good in his hand, cut, thick, heavy, and he leans in to kiss Harry as he gets him off. Harry's breaths get shorter, more desperate, the kiss more messy, teeth sharp on Zayn’s lip, and it doesn’t take him long to come hot and hard into Zayn’s hand and a little - of course - onto Veronica’s skirt. Zayn licks his palm clean - Harry tastes good, which is no surprise considering the fact that he’s Harry Styles - and wipes it off onto his blouse. 

“So,” he says, when Harry's breathing is at a normal pace again and he’s stopped looking so wild and as though he can barely believe any of it. Understandably, neither can Zayn. “This was…”

“Fun,” Harry says with certainty, and they laugh, and Harry leans up to kiss him again, more tentative this time, like he’s asking a question. “It’s okay,” Zayn says to him, kissing him again, “it’s okay, we’re good, we’re great,” mumbled against Harry's lips, and hopes that’ll be enough of an answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - any comments are appreciated!


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